tiny cuts

10.11.2017

snowdrops dancing on wind
whipped like custard, floating
down ever-spiraling to
frozen earth.
don’t worry, it melts
in your palms, your hair,
the tip of your nose as you
wait for the bus.
warm hands in pockets. headphones
tangled up and ugly,
cold-tinted windows and fog breath.

pages of dense subtext loose
long breaths of satisfaction
under the microscope. a papercut
quietly draws a single drop
of smearing red.
sublimation has come.
under examination, these tiny
cuts show themselves;
a million scars to match your own.
fissures already existing
to join skin in strange patterns
unique, but unwholesomely so.

knowledge and love, and mistakes.
new slices into the husk of me
sent off to meathouses
you no longer eat at.
i see you – changing like a tide
when there’s no moon to turn it.
now a thing you swore you hate.

i am to become a body grotesque.
trying to remain subsurface
proves only the incompetence
of the procedure
and the subject;
change was imminent and immense.
it did not matter in the slightest.

in this small space i find myself
glad you are well, glad for anything
that no longer involves me
feeling, no vitriol spat
against my tearing flesh.
if any fault was yours i’ve
long ago forgot it.

a snap is probably the way to do it.
when we dead wake it is
with a mourning manipulation
and several broken capillaries
around the eyes and mouth.
it could be gutted out yet;
wounds reopened and bled anew
because i’d still apologize, forgive,
love with this sinewy corpse –
but as i am terra-formed forgettable
you were richness removed and
myself the eluvium.

snow still spins downward
coating me in blameless white,
some devil’s flames come
to freeze me over,
palms of sawdust and
hair growing snakelike,
tip of my nose forever
brushing some feathered interior.
hands embrace the ruptured
scars. headphones splayed
across my desk,
no needless window, no breath.

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your words

27.10.2017

“how could you” –
cat viper forked tongue
raking over the coals.
how does your bitterness taste?

i packed a box. it was requested,
and how it came to be yours i do
not understand, nor will i ask.
it is enough to know it is not my business.

why then, is it yours to berate?
there will be no response in kind;
i hold no judge’s gavel, matted powder
wig, it is not my duty.

neither is it yours.

you would presume to know me,
to say that i am not unique,
that my experiences
are not allowed to shape me.

that now, taking a close look,
i am not approved to examine
myself in the way i see fit.
am i not granted rights to feel

distressed and bipolar,
pitiful, petty, hurting, sad,
anxious and furious
and mostly with myself.

there is righteousness, perhaps,
the protection of one so dear,
distaste on their behalf.
there is none in a fury that
does not belong to you.

i am not the first person who “could”, who “hurt”
another human being; it is in our
ever-evolving nature that we fuck up.
i will not be the last person, either.

a better do-over with knowledge of myself –
somehow that was lost in years
of trying to calm, to fit, fight, grin
and bear complacency choke-holds.

apologies are fruitless to a person
who is “100% done”
and cares not whether i draw breath.
those were your words, not mine

and despite the claims of hardship
i hear everything is fine.

words fall out of this mouth to the page
only of those that will to see and listen.
nothing of mine reaches those
who have no reason to look for it.

therefore, the only advice i can offer,
though i scarcely believe it needed;
stop glaring this way in hatred
(i have none for you, even as this is)
and look elsewhere with a happier heart.

joy can easily be exchanged
and shrouded in sorrow and pain.
you cannot see sunrise through rain clouds and fog
….i mean, how could you?

all off me

3.10.2017

all of me fits
in a nike box, dumped off
return to sender –
meanwhile my 20×12 room remains
a testament to you.
memento mori tears
the pit in my stomach builds
acid-refluxing towers, and i hope
that the New Me, the one
who you will love for all time
(in sickness and health, through
good times and bad, et cetera)
will love you back as much as i do
(in depression and serenity, through
bliss and fuckups, et cetera)
broken as i am.

73 pounds of failure
for sale at the butcher’s block
going for nothing
yet with no interested buyers.
i can see why you walked away.
i can see it all – ribcage like
jailor’s bars, shriveled breasts
and thigh-gap legs that won’t fill
clothes. palms forever open
in surrender, pleading for one…
one more talk, one more kiss, please
don’t say goodbye like this.

don’t let the end be a post-it
about four hundred bucks
and when you love her now, new fresh
sparkling relationship of promise
i hope that the stain
washes all off me.

paper

20.08.2017

these grey walls
are ashen prison blocks
but the windows are open,
and it feels bearable.
simple, to let go
and not be conscious
ignoring the gnawing gut,
the empty voices, the
goodbye words.

it is easy to be
alone when you turn
the brain off,
don’t feel the cold
anymore, it’s just
another piece of
the nothing-void.
shuffles pass by
the bedroom door
there is -no entry-
why would there be?
no one is here.
sleep time comes
and it goes, like a
wave crushing down
the sand pebbles.
stronger just because.
the moon comes up
the sun goes down
the stars are bats
flying picking
bugs from the air.
music used to matter
in this space
and so did books
and projects
and smiles that split
lips. now there are
only tiny bones
on the bed, small
bruises and headaches.
skin a see-through blouse.

paper little girl
cutting up other
little paper things
and wishing them
into real life.
this isn’t playtime
and you will have
nothing at the end –
money holds no weight
in a wallet that
doesn’t exist.
i’m sorry –
it all sounded good
written down.

reel it in

18.08.2017

haiku sets, tiny
fissures in a jaded heart –
but it wasn’t me.

i wear socks to bed
now – i picked it up from you,
a wayward habit.

can i ask what you
took from me? my legs, my lungs?
brain function in prose?

i am on this page,
and as the wind blows i see
you are not with me.

do not be afraid
of the words. do not worry
about my mistakes.

you will be just fine.
i am learning quite fast now
how to reel it in.

heartbeats

13.08.2017

i see the power lines, red
light district lights blinking,
the turrets of wind farms
spiraling endless and how
the fuck am i supposed
to reach out and touch this,
this happiness, and know that
it is something i cannot keep?

here there is americana
upswept in dust, hot days
with nightshade and fire pits.
i will my camera to appear,
to take my mind’s eye photos
of railroad tracks and dirty boots
and the stillness of your face
when you fall asleep.

i want to remain in the space
where i hear your heart beat.

may i capture it in format?
can i paint it in straight lines?
i will sculpt a door in which
i may traverse to sometime
that this would be different
and i would be better. i would be
lots of things, anything;
instead this repeats.

i can loop too.
just not like you, not in
the magic way that i don’t really
understand, just like so much
about you, but i want it and
the echoes, the ghost doesn’t,
+++++ it doesn’t
it doesn’t matter to me.

blue

8.08.2017

blue sky today –
looks washed clean, new
paint applied, no cracks
along the sideboards.

i light candles
that burn down to nothing,
for in this space
it is always dark.

text messages
are uncertain things;
notification alerts
like mini-panic attacks.

i make lists
to fill trash liners,
and whisper your
name on southern winds.

tiny pinpricks
through facade
made light shafts
on this shallow grave.

and suddenly i can see
all along what was wrong
was me, and my bothers
will never bother you.
here i am alone in blue.

so tired.
that’s when it hits, and i am
wrapping arms around my own waist and
there is nothing there, skin and bones
provide no comfort. no substance:
skeleton walking down the aisle to the grave, tears
you keep misunderstanding, become the
false placeholder: napkins stained at a wedding where
the roses stay painted, the smile now
etched in stone. i’ve tried to make
the happiness full in your heart, and my failure is still
incomplete. i cannot keep this free-fall going. i can’t keep
ticking like a cybernetic clock. i’m
turning cold. i shut down like an .exe –
screen
blue.

read me forwards and backwards.

windows

12.07.2017

sideways.
that’s the way it’s coming
in the bedroom window
and the fabric is stained
grey to black.
i lay myself down.

i watch the torrential
downpour, and i think
of you. cleaning
up the mess. does
the water draw you
out like a witch dowser?

time passes in chunks,
and suddenly i’ve found half
the day wasted in the
voyeurism of gravity mixing
with vapours of H20.
and where are you?

i don’t know is the answer
i’d most prefer to give.
it’s in the spot that makes
me ache – the place where
i am not. guilt rises through
my brittle bones.

i think you know this.
i think you look through the
window of my heart and see
where the downpour occurs.
i opened it for you, after all.
and when you see it

i think you smile.

background noise

9.07.2017

here in the tree
i am one leaf rustling.
i am together, and yet
s e p a r a t e
and i am lonely.
you are so close, but these
tendrils of photosynthesis
do not bind, do not touch,
do nothing but sustain
a bigger hierarchy of sound.

and if i was a flower, too
somewhere in-between i’d pause
and wonder why
you find the time
to visit everyone but me.
you must have been a busy bee.

these days our homes are never silent.
dryers running full, floorboards creaking,
shouting dogs and people barking
orders, and a small whimpering heard
through backs-of-doors, if only
you were listening.

the cicadas here are lovely things.
they sing and hum and never stop.
they work for every goddamn breath
til they fall down in grasses dead.

the breeze here blows free:
summer scent of beachy waves,
sun-tan oil stains,
your musty bedroom blankets:
the cacophony goes unheard
and i am
s o m e w h e r e
in the middle between hell
and high water.
i shout your name among
the flames.

we burn in earnest, you and i
in tandem like two apartments;
one catches to the other in
ruination.
the middle ground
is groaning cinder.

o attic space above my head!
rotting in asbestos corridors
filled with books and useless
verbage, ignored.
o basement dweller! your corners
dark and cracked with sorrow, the
mess of truth, become something
you may not have wished for.

even the insects sleep, quite hushed,
when night has turned here all to dark.
i lay awake, a puddle on the floor.
am i so easy to ignore?